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Fossil records suggest cranes have existed for over 35 million years. Today, 15 species of cranes still grace the world, and the near-extinction of Whooping Cranes inspired action to protect these large, beautiful birds capable of dance.

Writers explored the charisma of cranes — their ability to capture our imaginations through art and preservation. As usual, the phrase remained open to writer interpretation.

The following are based on the May 10, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story defining “the charisma of cranes.”

Hearing the engines of the American F-4 jets we scattered but there was nowhere to go. The bombs fell, followed by huge explosions. A fireball engulfed everything for miles. The burning tar clung to the skin of those in the open. Those undercover coughed from the deadly carbon monoxide cloud that robbed the atmosphere of oxygen. Who were the Americans fighting? The Vietcong or the Environment? The tallest flighted bird in the world took off taking hope with it.

Henry watched from the attic window as the yellow crane dipped its neck towards the earth. Strange! Hadn’t they finished the foundations last week?

A bird crossed the sky above the building site; it seemed much larger than the usual pigeons and gulls. Quieter too. And beautifully balanced. A heron would fly with its neck tucked into its shoulders, but this was cruciform. Symmetrical. Could it be a crane?

Hadn’t those charismatic birds died out in this part of the world? If they were returning, perhaps his sister would too. The new houses, hitherto unwelcome, would summon her home.

“Chichi.” There was no response. “Papa, if I wouldn’t have designed it, someone else would have.”

“This was built on the park where I courted your mother. The park where we picnicked with you as a child. The cranes that we treasured for our family’s good fortune… It was their home.”

“It still is, Chichi.” Taking his father’s hand, Tsuru continued turning the pages of the photo album.

“I remember my namesake’s stories. Look, Chichi. The Sasaki Medical Complex is in her honor. We reclaimed the fouled marshlands. Reestablished walkways and shelters. Chichi, the cranes, are safe once again.”

I leaned against the pole overlooking the boardwalk and chuckled to myself as I took another drag from my cigarette. In a way, it was like watching poetry in motion, a dance of jest, an innocent flirtation (if you could call it that) as he paced passing couples, children, and women. He didn’t say anything and instead impressed them with juggling, twisting balloons into animal shapes, and spontaneously extending paper flowers to the single ladies walking by. He blocked paths long enough to be playful, leaving passersby smiling. He had the charisma of cranes, and I couldn’t look away.

After the Wall came down, Berlin was a flurry of new construction. Huge cranes punctuated the landscape everywhere. The noise was its own buzz. Everywhere were fences around the sites. Boards with sketches of the respective projects.

After jetlag had settled, Jean and Steve couldn’t take their eyes off them, the sheer modernity, buildings popping up everywhere.

Away from the big tourist draws: the New Synagogue, rebuilt in 1995, 57 years after Kristallnight. Jean first saw it in 1980. Fenced off, a sign telling the story, ending with the words: “Never forget this.” Glass still tinkled as it fell.

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Cranescape by Juliet Nubel

They were changing the face of the city. Dozens of them standing high over the wastelands, their spines tall and straight, their long necks stretching out over the green plains. They were of all different colours, colliding and merging in the brand new skyscape. How many could the eye take in at once?

Some found them charismatic, bringing life to the town. Others detested their metallic structures, so out of touch with the ever-receding beauty of the surrounding fields.

Daily, men climbed the ladders to reach tiny cabins, then looked down upon the concrete boxes growing beneath their feet.

Her hair glistened midnight at him, eyes so dark a universe lived inside. He loved their first date, her eyes closed to enjoy Debussy’s La Mer. Her impeccable manners at the city’s best restaurant, an ability to hold intelligent conversations about politics…he’d hoped she’d be the one.

“There’s a fund-raiser for Whooping Cranes next week…”

“I’m a structural engineer,” Emma said, pointing to the skyscraper under construction. “That’s the only kind of crane I like.”

As we walked through the yard, daylight shone harshly from the multifaceted car wrecks piled around us. The smell of diesel and sunshine drifted over an unbearably dry breeze.

“You’re looking for a 1955 Plymouth?”

I nodded affirmatively to my grease covered guide.

“Lars! Crane to lot 44!”

A long shadow flashed over us, and the grind of metal on rusty metal filled the already acrid air. A large magnetic hoof dropped obediently from the sky, landing atop a mountain of metal husks. Rising slowly, it pulled my dented Plymouth from the heap.

His long spatulate fingers, joints knobby as cherry pits, cup a bouquet of fresh dwarf roses. He shifts from foot to foot within the grove of birch trees, anxious over his late arrival at the graveyard.

For twenty years he’s delivered a secret miracle to a grieving woman. For her part, she’d never remarried. He honored her devotion.

His pale blue gaze darts, beady under heavy brows. He swallows and decides, Adam’s apple pitching up, then down. He swoops, scooping up dead roses, replacing them with fresh, breathing a prayer.

I am gorgeous, am I not?
We are two of a kind, you and I.
My blue eyes can see what you’re thinking, and I understand.
Do not be fooled by appearances.
My legs may be spindly, but they are surprisingly sturdy and strong.
I can keep up with the flock.
My crowning glory shimmers in the autumn sun.
I am smitten by your beauty, as you are stunned by my prowess.
We will make such beautiful chicks together.
We cranes mate for life.
Be mine forever, and I will follow you to the edge of eternity and beyond.

The stern countenance of the old warrior looked peaceful despite the wails and lamentations of the women of the village. The feathers of the blue crane, or indwe, stuck out of his hair; a startling contrast to his lined and worn features.

During his life, he had been proud of this illustrious decoration. The feathers had been bestowed on him by the Chief of his Xhosa tribe at the ceremony called ukundzabela. The great battle at which he had distinguished himself would always be remembered by his descendants. He had been one of the men of ugaba or trouble.

Summer – she stretched her neck to see the Great Blue standing, poised and posing on the rock near the south bend. There was once a pair, thrived here peaceably dining on what the fisherfolk who did catch and release, left them.

Somewhere she has a memory of that scene in digital form – she also has a small copy of the photo on the bird wall in her home.

One of fisherfolk she spoke to this spring saw a pair within the last few years. Might just be a new pair – since the bird’s life expectancy is only fifteen years.

Cranes tell us the delight of crisp pickles, bring us babies at prearranged appointments and adorn rice paper bordered with poetry. The birds fly and swoop, skirt ponds and stand in water effortlessly still. Their reflections add milk to still waters, twirling in eddies like bizarre espressos of Lake Michigan.

They march in single lines, chanting, strutting their wings in constrained fury. The air is theirs, they declare; the seas and lakes, too. Their feathers brush against the winds, bouncing up and down rhythmically. A black eye fixates on you. They are aware of your presence. Are you, too?

George folded the edges of the paper. He had already finished his test, so he decided to make a paper crane. His grandma taught him how to fold different kinds of animals, but her favorite had always been the crane. When he visited her in the hospital a few days earlier, she told him that one day when she is gone, she will come back to see him as a crane.

Just at that moment, a breeze came through the open window, and George’s crane lifted from his desk and took flight out the window.

The “Charisma of Cranes” stood in the foyer of the gallery as a greeting to all who wandered by. It never failed to stop visitors who’d stop to gaze mesmerised by the work. Three aristocratic cranes offset against each other with the third one, with captivating eyes, drawing you in and thus being the thrust of conversation.

The cranes, painted by the legendary artist, C Mills, were featured staring out at those of us looking on. It was agreed, through an extensive survey, that the third crane was the most prominent in looking directly at you. Because it was!

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From the Left Hand of Wallace Williams by Elliott Lyngreen

Wallace Williams drew on pulp one crane, grandiloquent among thousands of ashen pulps.

The charisma that blends the crane, however, scales this vanishing point at minute discomfort. Art Wallace Williams prepared for my grandmother. She elucidates, “..oh how he drew this. . . using his left hand due to a recent stroke.

The business man’s suit was very expensive. When you work in a fabric shop, you can tell things like that. He was in search of cotton fabric that had cranes on it, not the machine, but the majestic white bird with a red crown. He explained the crane signified good luck and longevity in Japan where the new owner of his company would be visiting from. The fabric would be tied in a specific manner around a gift. The style of folding and knots more important than the present and the cranes a bonus. We enjoyed the cultural lesson.

Turtle dreamt of journeying. With certain steps, Turtle began trudging along an uncertain path. Borne of Earth, yet bearing thirteen moons full upon her back, Turtle bore her journey with patience and faith.
After many cycles of many moons, Turtle was far from where her journey had begun. In the shelter of wise Pine, Turtle curled up to rest. Then Turtle awakened, transformed as if again emerging from a shell.
As Crane, Turtle stretched feathered wings, stood tall upon two long legs, danced a dance of timelessness; as Crane, flew high over Pine, lucidly, all past illusions clearly visible.

“What time is it?” She fumbled for her phone. “Hell!” All night she’d craved sleep, then slept through. She pulled on yesterday’s clothes, ruffled her hair and charged out.

People packed the square so tight she couldn’t squeeze through. She craned her neck but, even on tiptoes, couldn’t see. She pushed into the tiniest gap on a ledge, only to be elbowed off. But she’d spotted a cherry picker. She climbed in, pushed a button and up she went; just as the crowd dispersed. She’d missed out again.

Monogamous. Bonded for life. Couples are known by synchronous, trumpeting calls. The female initiates, standing with wings folded and beak pointed skyward. The male mirrors, but with wings flared. The performance begins.

One bird picks up some grass, tosses it into the air, and catches it in its bill. The bird then jumps into the air with outstretched wings, bows, struts, and bobs its head up and down.

First, the brolgas dance for their mate; then dance in pairs. Finally, they dance together as a whole group.

I observe them through my binoculars, amazed; thinking, “The charisma of cranes.”

I looked aghast, for I knew nothing of Cranes.” I hear they dance with charisma, ………” silence….. Do they fly? Do they chirp?……

Don’t you judge!😃

🥕🥕🥕

Dream by Tiffany Blair

There once was a dancer younger and brash, her dream to be on stage, she was determined to let nothing stand in her way, she practiced from sun up to sun down until her feet were sore and blistered until finally, her chance came.

She pirouetted, twirled and leaped, always on the move, across the stage and when bright flashes met the end of her performance she bowed, happy, for she’d finally accomplished her dream, the stage was where she was meant to be, from then on, she was determined nothing would get in her way again.

Ah, Ritu, Word Press gobbled it up somewhere along the way! Always worries me when that happens, but I’m so glad you spoke up so I could correct it. It’s not a problem to update or correct the collection. Thank you!

Lovely pieces, Charli. An unusual topic. I was late this week but I did write a piece and this is it:

The stern countenance of the old warrior looked peaceful despite the wails and lamentations of the women of the village. The feathers of the blue crane, or indwe, stuck out of his hair; a startling contrast to his lined and worn features.

During his life, he had been proud of this illustrious decoration. The feathers had been bestowed on him by the Chief of his Xhosa tribe at the ceremony called ukundzabela. The great battle at which he had distinguished himself would always be remembered by his descendants. He had been one of the men of ugaba or trouble.

That’s always my favorite part, Irene — to see all the different expressions of a single prompt. I think of the prompt as a problem and the 99-word constraint as the problem-solving tool. With such variety, it shows how creative we can be in finding solutions!

I missed a great prompt last week, Charli. The crane, prince of all feathered creatures. Embodying longevity and peace. If Phoenix is firstborn, the crane is closely to follow.
I had a wonderful time with Mercy, Will, and Autumn last weekend. Autumn started crawling on Mother’s Day. What a joyful gift she gave to my daughter.
I’ll be in Denali, Alaska next Friday and try to check your prompt, see if I could do something in a flash.

What a wonderful gift, to have a grandchild’s first crawl on Mother’s Day! I’m so happy for you to get such quality time with your grands. I like what you say about Phoenix and cranes. Safe journey to Denali!

Thank you, Charli. We’ll have fun in Denali.
I signed up to attend a writing conference in our local area in June. One of the workshops is on writing memoir. I’ll meet up with a presenter to talk about that. I also found in my computer many children stories I wrote when I took the Children’s Literature Writing Course. They were ready to send to magazines but I haven’t done it. I may extend them into children’s books. The process seems to be fitting for a post in your Raw Literature.